


Another Find at the Crime Scene

by Museohmuse



Series: 30 Day Drabble Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 day drabble challenge, M/M, caselock, johnlock challenge response
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Museohmuse/pseuds/Museohmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was not completely sure how he ended up chasing the accused culprit into a raging nightclub with only Sherlock's obnoxious coat creating a cape-like ability to easily defy gravity that was impossible to ignore. Perhaps this was his life now: his only chance at a night out was only possible if a murder case was involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Find at the Crime Scene

**Author's Note:**

> My first (posted) Johnlock piece. Hopefully more to follow!
> 
> This was originally written for a challenge at Tumblr, but I've lost the original prompt like a foOL. Whatever, I tried.

“What have we got?” Some might think it odd that D.I. Lestrade, the man who was supposed to be running the investigation, would willingly inquiry this, but everyone present carried on as if the tall man with his startling trench coat was wearing a typical police uniform.

“To what ends are you referring to?” the man asked, his deep voice carrying easily amidst the murmurs of the other works. “If you're speaking physically, I could tell you that hours before, he was smoking a White-Tail cigarette - his first one in a couple months, as you can see by his fresh nail beds. Or of his marital status: a wife, richer than he, very concerned about their appearance - his hat was well tended to, and his scarf is of a brand only available to those of affluence.

“There is certainly more to tell of his possible murder: suspicious dark colored markings on the rim of his glasses case; mud that could have only been tracked from southern parts of this area, as that's where rain fell last within the last four days; his handkerchief is missing, replaced with what appears to be a poor imitation of it - the stitching is all wrong in correlation with the suit jacket.”

“Amazing,” John breathed, the word falling out of his mouth almost instinctually. Sherlock cocked his head at John, mouth pulling at the corners to form a soft smirk, before he refocused on the still cadaver.

Lestrade, who had been busily scribbling away in his notebook, looked up at Sherlock's expectant silence, and said, “Yes, that's all very good, thank you.”

“Do you mind if I –” John started towards the body, looking not at Lestrade but Sherlock for permission.

“Of course,” Lestrade responded. “Yes, I don't want your skills to go unused,” Sherlock added without a hint of irony.

“I must impress upon the both of you that this is a very special case.” At Sherlock's snort, Lestrade sent him a sharp look before continuing, “Perhaps not special as in extraordinarily inhuman, but the person in question” - he gestured shortly at the cadaver – “is well known, unfortunately. I know I don't have to worry about you two, but I'd feel better if I made it clear that this is a confidential case.”

John and Sherlock exchanged dubious looks, but nodded their consent. It wasn't the first time they'd been approached with a sensitive case - and it certainly wouldn't be their last.  
John bent over, mindful of the body's arm splayed at an unnatural angle, and put his gloved fingers on the man's neck, turning the head slightly. “No serious signs of a struggle,” he noted almost absently. “There is some slight bruising on his upper neck. Possibly a kick to the back of the head, or the result of being thrown down on a hard surface.” John moved his gaze lower, glancing at the man's fingers.

“Someone must have had a grudge of some sorts: his fingers were stomped on, from what I can infer from these linear bruises.” John looked up at Lestrade and asked, “Can I turn him over?”

Lestrade huffed, glancing around the roped off area before nodding with slight hesitance. With Sherlock's help, John was able to roll the body over, revealing the man's identity.

“Bloody hell!'” The curse fell out of John's mouth involuntarily. He looked at Sherlock, who returned his excited gaze with a blank one. “You have no idea who this man is, do you?” he asked, dismayed. Sherlock's blank gaze steeled with defiance, asserting John's assumption.

“He's Marty Fowl. He's - well, was - married to Christy K.” Again, John got a blank look.

“Honestly, you must have at least seen her in the papers.” Nothing. “Or perhaps one of her songs?”

“How would I know which song is hers if I don't even know her?” Sherlock scoffed. “Besides, I don't indulge stations that just repeat the same irritating songs for the sake of a simpering adolescent population.”

“Oi, Christy K's a talent!” Lestrade jumped in, flushing lightly when Sherlock only raised an eyebrow at him.

“Sherlock, I know you know one of her song.” John seemed adamant in converting Sherlock to one of the masses, the way he kept going on about it being impossible to not know one of Christy K's songs.

“My favorite is 'Murder at a Crime Scene.'” Lestrade said. “'I don't know what's got into my/mi-i-i-i-ind/but I fear that with one more look/I'll just be another find/at the crime scene!'”

There was a pregnant pause that followed the excerpt, broken by John's snort of laughter. It was quickly followed by Sherlock's chuckles, a smile stretching across his face.

“Greg, you're horrible!” John crowed, not even bothering to stifle his laugh.

“I am not!” Lestrade spluttered, clearly affronted.

“Lestrade, I have never heard that song in my life, and even I could tell that was remarkably subpar,” Sherlock added between his bursts of laughter.

“No laughing at a crime scene!” Lestrade hissed when he realized that not only were Sherlock and John still laughing, but attention was being drawn to them.

“Never stopped us before,” Sherlock replied imperiously.

Lestrade's face pulled into what looked to the beginnings of a frown. “I shall have you dismissed.”

“Oh, where would you even be without my assistance?” Sherlock said airily.

“No doubt running round crime scenes acting like chickens with your head cut off,” John supplied, sending a mocking smirk at Lestrade's pinched face.

“Get back to work,” was all he said before spinning off.

“Good Lord, he's almost as bad as Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his face blank but the smile evident is his tone. “Sensitive nancies, really.”

John giggled, shaking his head as he said, “Bit not good, Sherlock.”

///

John was not completely sure how he ended up chasing the accused culprit into a raging nightclub with only Sherlock's obnoxious coat creating a cape-like ability to easily defy gravity that was impossible to ignore. Perhaps this was his life now: his only chance at a night out was only possible if a murder case was involved. John wasn't completely sure he was on board with that, but it was hard to think about reevaluating his life when struggling to keep up with Sherlock's sure sprint.

The culprit had fled into the club through a side door that was propped open (careless security, John noted to himself), and Sherlock and John followed her right into the thick of it. Inside, the music was thumping steadily, bodies almost indistinguishable from each other as they writhed in time to the music.

John was nearly overwhelmed, but could not dwell on it or he'd risk losing Sherlock in the mass. Pushing through the wall, John struggled to keep Sherlock's coat - now startlingly out of place in the club - in his line of sight.

The culprit took them to the opposite side of the club, her lithe body making it easier for her to navigate the crashing seas. Sherlock was persistent, bashing into people without a single apology and not even checking to see if John was still running after him. (He was, if anyone doubted that.)

Eventually - finally - Sherlock bounded out the side door and rugby-tackled the culprit, sending them both sprawling. The girl was surprisingly resilient, trying to wrestle Sherlock's weight off her, but to no avail.

John, while trying to catch his breath, pulled the squirming girl from underneath Sherlock and grabbed at her arms to immobilise her.

“Let me go, you prick!” she shouted, kicking her legs out uselessly.

“I'll tell you what,” John muttered, watching as Sherlock brushed himself off lazily and looking for all the world as if he'd just taken a nighttime stroll as opposed to a thirty minute race round southern London, “if you had any chance of proving your innocence, that chance was shot.” The girl glared at John, eyes smouldering with the words left unsaid.

“Thank you for your assistance as always, John,” Sherlock said airily, phone already in hand. He muttered short words to who John suspected was Lestrade on the other line.

“He'll be here shortly,” Sherlock replied to John's questioning look. John nodded, his grip tightening on the now silent girl.

Minutes later, the sound of a police siren was bouncing off the stone walls, and the car pulled to the alleyway's opening. Sherlock, John, and the culprit met Lestrade halfway, Lestrade bearing a solemnly victorious expression and handcuffs.

“Many thanks to you, as always, Sherlock,” Lestrade said as he cuffed the girl. “And to you, John.”

“Not a problem, Lestrade. Anything to help.” John knew Sherlock would not respond as such, which did nothing to harden John's heart, unfortunately.

As the police car pulled away, John made to walk out towards the opening to hail a cab, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. He turned to Sherlock, who was looking at him with an uncharacteristically sheepish look.

“I thought we might stay a little bit, to celebrate?” John cracked a smile at the question, the 'yes' already at the tip of his tongue.

“Best we take advantage of our setting, right?” John replied, tugging Sherlock back inside the pounding club.

It seemed like the chase had done nothing to interrupt the dancers, but John noticed side-long glances directed towards them. It might have also been the result of their poor choice of clothing: John with his white jumper and Sherlock with his heavy coat. Sherlock thankfully picked up on this, sliding out of the coat and giving it to the bartender once he secured the promise that it would be in the same condition as he left it. John didn't bother to tell Sherlock that might have been an unreasonable demand, too busy taking in the clench of Sherlock's forearms as he rolled up his sleeves.

"Drinks?" Sherlock asked, shouting over the music. John nodded, and Sherlock turned back to the bartender, rattling off their drink orders. Sherlock shoved John's drink in his hand, clinking it with his and mouthing 'salut!' John returned the favor, letting the sharp flavor cool him down.

The high from the chase was beginning to morph into a different sort of excitement as John took in the dancing figures moving through flashing lights. He hadn't gone clubbing in a long time, never really thought it was worth his time, especially after meeting Sherlock. John didn't miss the suffocating atmosphere, but it was nice to slip into old preferences every once and a while.

"Do you dance?" John jumped, not expecting Sherlock to be as close as he was. The flashing lights shone in Sherlock's eyes, making the multi-colored facets even more jarring.

"I suppose. Are you asking me to dance with you?" It wasn't as if John had never considered this shift - when he began to realize that his pulling skills weren't unsuccessful as much as they were unwilling; when Sherlock's rare but fond smiles created a mirror image involuntarily on John's face; when John had to force himself to ignore that pull in his stomach when Sherlock painted an almost divine image of complete relaxation, pale neck arched, veins thrumming with sinful temptation.

Sherlock's wicked grin had John going cross-eyed as he leaned in to whisper in John's ear, "That depends on if you're accepting."

Heat roared through John's body, eager to catch on. As if some kind of cosmic force was in play, the opening beat of one of Christy K's singles had the crowd roaring their approval, their sympathy.

John quickly swallowed the rest of his drink, grabbing Sherlock's hip and dragging him into the crowd. "Now," Sherlock murmured, pulling John closer to him, chest to chest, hip to hip. "Let's see what we can do about this ignorance of pop music."

**Author's Note:**

> So hey! I'm participating in the AO3 Auction, and I'd be so chuffed if you bid on me. You can search me with my username here and check me out. Even if I'm not your cup of tea, there are hundreds (literally hundreds) of other authors, so check to see if yours are biddable! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
